Rosemary for Remembrance, Pitiless Milieu
by funeral flowers
Summary: You’re so bittersweet when you cry, like pearls from such beautifully rimmed irises…" Fingers tracing my trembling lips stained with blood.


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Title: Rosemary for Remembrance, Pitiless Milieu

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Rating: PG-13, suggestive themes and murder.

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Song: Acoustic #3, The Goo-Goo Dolls

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Character(s): Ginny Weasley, Bellatrix Lestrange

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Summary: "You're so bittersweet when you cry, like pearls from such beautifully rimmed irises…" Fingers tracing my trembling lips stained with blood.

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Words: 801

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Note: Well, this is another tragedy fic.

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everything belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I own nothing. Lines from 'Hamlet' belong to William Shakespeare.

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Dedication: To everyone who believes there is no real evil in the world. Mostly to Brando and Katie, unconditional best friends.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Clock is beating off second by second of the hours I've spent. Content on a plastic covered couch with eyes following the pendulum. It swings side to side. There is no time. My eyes fail to fall victim of hypnotic glances from the older one in the doorway with the deep red gloss gracing her lips. I do not want them to touch my body, their coldness overwhelming to the part they touch, staining it forever in dark tones.

After one thousand and eight hundred ticks and an equal amount of tocks there is a signal of the hours. At this moment there are nine resonating dongs. Night has set its despondency upon me, weaving its web of tirelessness and murk. There is a creaking sound and footsteps, exactly fifteen, that bring a tall dark figure to loom, eyes boring into me. Her long, burgundy lacquered nail scratches at the fading wallpaper and I cringe.

There is no time to hide from her. She struts in with black hair waving behind her, black eyes giving a devilish leer. Her lips are coated in a deep cabernet color and as she lowers herself to my level there is a sense of brooding danger in the air. Her voice quickly cradles mine; deep tones ready to support my breathy protests and squeals. She'll begin by getting rid of my shirt, placing it on the ground, folding it, always folding it. The straps of my brassiere are undone next, placed carefully on top of my shirt still stained with a lip above the right breast pocket.

"You're so bittersweet when you cry, like pearls from such beautifully rimmed irises…" Fingers tracing my trembling lips stained with blood.

Halfway exposed to her she reaches to touch me and that is when I retort. Hand on her forearm, pushing her back to the ground where her head, such head that holds dark ringlets so close, hits the table, neck giving a crack. Her eyes light up for a moment and then dim: hand reaching for my neck. She reaches it, clasping it between her fingertips and palm.

I do not give her the satisfaction of hurting me, lowering my own arm and having her silently undo my skirt, folding it and placing it upon my other clothing. She kisses above my navel, sending shivers up and down my front. Kiss on my forehead leaves a mark much longer than lipcolor. Kisses on my stomach and inner thighs before she reaches for my knickers. I clench a fist, reaching into the cushion as her long fingers spread against my stomach and reach down on the elastic.

From behind me I pull what I have hidden, a gun. Finger shaking on the silver trigger that feels cold to the touch. Her eyes spell out danger, but I ignore the warning. My hand is steady, and I count in my head. One: _there's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. _Two: _There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue for you; and here's some for me: we may call it herb-grace o' Sundays: O, you must wear your rue with a difference. _Three: _There's a daisy: I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died: they say he made a good end, --_ I give a moment to wonder what she bleats as a lament. _For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy._

"Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, she turns to favor and to prettiness."

As if she knew what I was thinking. A shot at her final word sends her dying, flying. Death leaves her to leave me.

"_And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead: Go to thy deathbed He will never come again. His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll: He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan: God ha' mercy on his soul! And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God be wi_'_ ye._" Traveling through the room with mirrors on the wall, each kissed with the lips that violated me. "_They bore him barefaced on the bier; Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny; And in his grave rain'd many a tear: -- Fare you well, my dove!_"

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Clock is beating off second by second of the hours I've spent. Sitting on the floor in the dark room lined with mirrors kissed with the lips of which uttered such sweet words to me in such pitiless milieu. Words echo around me, _You must sing a-down a-down, An you call him a-down-a. O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter._


End file.
